Forgotten Memories
by SourSugarQuills
Summary: Because Ianto Jones knew all too well about getting his heart broken by darkhaired men in long coats.


Forgotten Memories

Summary: Because Ianto knew all too well about getting his heart broken by dark-haired men in long Coats.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Part One: A Study in Pink

He should have known to be cautious when he met Sherlock Holmes. It had been four years since he had awakened, alone and afraid in a box six feet under. He dug his way out of the earth, surprising himself that he managed to do so, with the cold, alone feeling of death clinging to his skin.

He had to break into his flat, only to find that everything had been packed up and moved out. Swearing, he ran to the hub before stopping himself out of the security camera's range.

Jack was walking back with a new team and Gwen, smiling and laughing about something. His heart broke in half, shattering on the way down.

Jack had moved on. Jack didn't need the past to bring him pain again.

Then Gwen kissed Jack and everything spiraled downwards.

Jack was sleeping with Gwen.

He had broken into The Hub in the middle of the night, only to get enough money to acquire fake documents and get out. It wouldn't be good to be officially thought of as a dead man.

With enough contacts in the right places, he was able to acquire a fake birth certificate and driver's license. John Hamish Watson was his new name, a combination of his grandfathers' names and his mother's maiden name.

He became a surgeon in record time, in honor of Owen's memory. He would have done something for Tosh, but that level of technology and genius was beyond him.

On a whim, he died his hair blonde and joined the army. He craved adventure, and though the army wasn't quite Torchwood, it would work.

Then he got shot. He could've stayed working, god knows Torchwood would have made him, but the Army thought he was unfit for duty.

He was sent off to London, where he wanted to stay less than Cardiff, but more than the rest of the world and there was no way on earth he would return to Cardiff.

The war had aged him prematurely. He had wrinkles and gray hairs when a few years before there was smooth skin and full, colored hair.

(At Torchwood he never thought he'd see his hair turn gray.)

He'd spent hours just looking at them when he came home from Afghanistan. He stared in a mixture of shock and disbelief, running his hand through gray hairs and pinching at the wrinkling skin.

He had a therapist who said he had PTSD, and that he had a psychosomatic limp.

(He didn't tell her that he still has phantom pains in his lungs and throat from when he died. She'd send him straight to the insane asylum.)

She told him to write a blog.

(He doesn't tell her that he used to write journals or that he preferred journaling over blogging, because he's never journaling again.)

He still didn't know what to write. How would he start a blog, after all? "Hi, my name is John Watson, formerly Ianto Jones and I've died before! I used to work for Torchwood, which is this secret organization that fights aliens in Cardiff," It's not like anyone would believe a word he said, and the new Torchwood tech specialist would shut down the website if it even mentioned Torchwood's name.

His army pension was small, and he could barely hold onto his cramped little flat for a few months, let alone wear suits again. But he supposed that was alright, he couldn't bear to wear a suit, because everytime he did Jack's voice rang in his head. 'Love the suit,' and it made him sick to think about it. He had met an old friend from medical school that day. Mike Stanford was his name, and they spoke a little bit about flatmates.

"Who would want me as a flatmate?" He scoffed, thinking of his old neat freak habits, the half converted Lisa, and all of the secrets he held up inside of him.

"Funny," Laughed Stanford. "You're the second person to say that to me."

"Who was the first?" He asked, slightly intrigued by this mystery person.

Stanford took him back to St. Bart's hospital, and led him into one of the old classrooms. A man stood in there, dark-hair and long coat and so very Jack that his heart stuttered in his chest a few times.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man asked, and suddenly he's not so much Jack as a mind reading alien.

"You told him about me," He accused Stanford.

The moment passed in a blur, and suddenly he and the man-Sherlock Holmes- were going to see a flat together tomorrow.

Finally it seemed like his life had just a tad bit more purpose.

-=OOO=-

He met Sherlock the next day at the address, 221B Baker Street. It was a charming little flat, and he liked the sight of it straight away. As it turned out, Sherlock was a bit of a messy person. There was science equipment in the kitchen, and boxes strewn all over the place. Thankfully after a few years in the army he was able to tolerate it much more easily than he would have once.

The kitchen lacked a coffee machine, he found out. He guessed that was alright, he hadn't made coffee in who knew how long of a time. He wasn't even sure if his hands remembered how to make it perfectly. Tea would do, he supposed. He wasn't too bad at making that, either.

Sherlock was a bit of a detective, though he still wasn't sure that his alien theory was completely wrong, with the way he was able to 'deduce' facts about a person's life.

Sherlock was able to figure everything out about him, though he did get the bit about Harry wrong. In fact, he had gotten the phone as a gift from a Harriet Watson who he had served with in the army. But it was best for Sherlock to think that he had a sister; much more normal that way.

They arrived at a crime scene together, and he couldn't help but feel oddly nostalgic for the times he was there with Torchwood. Sherlock didn't put on their pristine plastic suits, like Jack never did. He felt his heart yearn for the man a little because it had been so very long and he missed Jack too much, so much it physically seemed to pull at his heartstrings. He shrugged the feelings off and did an unofficial autopsy-the cause of death was easily asphyxiation. Of course Sherlock passed by that conclusion and made several about the woman instead: She had a multiple lovers who didn't know she was married, she was married unhappily, and she was from Cardiff.

(If his heart clenched at the thought of his wonderful city, well, no one needed to know that.)

Suddenly he was swept up in a case, and he found that being Sherlock's flatmate wasn't too bad of a replacement for the army, or Torchwood, even.

They went out to dinner, even though Sherlock didn't eat, and he was reminded for a fleeting second of the date he and Jack never had. He pushed that out of his mind again, he was a new person now, and he didn't know the enigmatic, heartbreaking Captain Jack Harkness.

He did however, know one Sherlock Holmes.

Then they were chasing after mysterious cabs, and it was so like Torchwood he had to stop himself from calling Sherlock Jack. His limp was gone and his hands didn't shake and his lungs felt just fine and he didn't even notice until they were back at the flat.

The police had invaded the flat under the pretense of a 'drugs bust'. He had to stop himself from chuckling at it, the words "Torchwood, above the government, beyond the police," Ringing in his head, the memories of the police's shocked and disgruntled looks from when Torchwood came in jumping into mind. They finally got back at Torchwood, he supposed, though unknowing.

Then Sherlock had suddenly left and the parallels between him and Jack were astonishing, his mind remembering when Jack had just ran off one year, not telling anyone where he was going or looking back once.

He was thinking about Sergeant Donovan's words, not in a lot of detail, he didn't think that Sherlock would kill someone, but he did think his heart would break. After all, he knew all too well about getting his heart broken by dark-haired men in long coats.

Then the computer dinged and he checked it, and he ran after Sherlock not caring about the consequences.

His heart may break, but perhaps it would be worthwhile.

-=OOO=-

He killed a man for Sherlock. He's not sure what he thinks of that. Would he have done the same for Jack, had he still been Ianto Jones, to stop Jack from dying again? In a heartbeat. But now he's John Watson, and he didn't think he'd ever kill again after he came back from the war.


End file.
